Never Say Never Sammy
by Marvelicious
Summary: Following the events of episode 5x03, Sam is alone and finding it harder and harder to say no to Lucifer. For her part, Lucifer decides to give Sam everything he never even knew he needed - the chance to give up control.
1. Chapter 1

**So this was my contribution to the 'spn_kink_meme' on Livejournal. My fist ever big bang challenge, and I think it turned out pretty darn well, If I do say so myself. For the art that goes with it, visit 'chef_geekier' (also on Livejournal). I'll be posting a piece a day, since there are three more chapters to come. Enjoy!**

_**Never Say Never Sammy**_

_**Prologue:**_

"_Hey," Sam says, greeting the man on the stool next to his, a bit desperate for conversation, "come here often?" He'd meant it as a throwaway remark, maybe even a joke, but it comes out sounding like a shitty pick-up line. Mr. Two-creams-no-sugar glares at him for a moment before picking up his coffee and moving to the furthest booth from Sam – which really, the Waffle House isn't that big, but the intent is clear. He blushes down at his pancakes, mildly shocked and more than a little embarrassed that the guy thought Sam was propositioning him. It was barely eight am! Sure, Dean might slut it around with anyone, anytime, anywhere, but that didn't mean two strangers couldn't chat over coffee, right?_

_The thought of Dean sent a pang of – Of what? Guilt? Loneliness? – through him, and Sam lost interest in his food. He hadn't heard from Dean in over a year now, had no way of knowing if he was even still alive, yet somehow it was so easy to picture him here in a shitty truck stop diner. Maybe he'd be coming out of the bathroom in a minute or two, making some comment much too loud and winking at Two-creams-no-sugar with a mischievous glint in his eye. Sam would roll his eyes right back; Dean would call him a prude. To which Sam would call him a jerk; "bitch" Dean would reply, and everything would be okay with the world again._

_Yeah, time to get out of here._

_The waitress all but ignored him as Sam paid the check, but he tipped her well anyway, offering up a smile and a "thanks," because he'd always tried to have good manners, even if Dean made fun of him for it. "Have a nice day," he called back as he left. Good karma had never shielded him from the universal kick-me sign that had to be hanging over his head invisibly or something, but Sam figured he might as well cover all of his bases anyway. It certainly couldn't hurt._

_He had a long drive ahead of him in a crappy old car he'd stolen three states back, and was daring to hope against hope that it wouldn't crap out on him in the middle of nowhere, so hopefully karma would hold out for a bit. Though maybe driving a stolen car wasn't the best way to attract good karma… But if it kept him away from Lucifer? To save the world?_

_The sun glinted brightly off of the small puddles in the parking lot, shattering into a million sharp fragments of light. He could figure out the ethics of his life on the drive, though Sam doubted it mattered much at this point. It seemed like Lucifer was determined to make Sam his bitch one way or the other, and the world was closing in on him, even as the sky opened up bright blue in the early morning light, seeming to stretch on forever. It was beautiful, but as Sam dug the keys out of his pocket all he could think of was how small it made him feel. The roads he drove stretched on just as long with no end in sight, no destiny except the devil waiting in every little city and town._

_He was back to dreaming about Jess, watching helplessly as she burned up in front of him. He'd wake up in a sweat, afraid to close his eyes for fear of seeing the accusing blue staring back at him. You could have saved me. And then it was others; his greatest failures played back in the darkness as he lay there trying not to cry – all of the people he couldn't save, the people he hurt, the people he killed – way too many people and way too much blood on his hands._

_It was wearing him down, and Sam couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept for more than an hour straight, but he had to keep going, had to keep running, over and over and over. Because he couldn't let Lucifer catch him, couldn't trust himself enough not to say yes. Life was just wearing him down these days, a constant barrage of loneliness, fear, and sleep-deprivation. He didn't want to keep going, didn't want to keep living, but even suicide wasn't an out. Lucifer's taunting words simply echoed in his head on a loop, over and over and over again: "I'll just bring you back"_

_Even as he drove, the mantra was the same. "I'll just bring you back." The rattling engine told him with certainty, and it blared from the static that seemed to occupy every channel of the radio. When he rolled down the windows, the air rushing past would scream it at him so loud that Sam had begun to prefer simply sweating in the boiling heat of the car instead. The voices could have been caused by the amount of caffeine Sam was relying on to keep him awake nowadays, but somehow, he knew better._

_And then one night, it had changed._

"_Sam!" Jess called out to him from the top step of their apartment, running down the stairs without even pausing to shut the door behind her. She was in baggy sweatpants and a plain tee shirt, her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, but as she ran to where Sam stood on the sidewalk, Sam had never thought she'd looked so beautiful._

"_Jess," He breathed, shocked that his mind would give him something like this now. He caught her and held her close, trying to re-memorize the way it felt to have her in his arms. Sam had never forgotten that, even after all this time. Jess was like nothing, like no one, else. _

"_I was wondering when I'd get to see you again," She told him, looking up at Sam with those gorgeous eyes of hers, and indulgent smile on her face, like she'd been waiting here for him for ages. As if all he needed to do was find this place again and she'd be there. The loneliness struck back harder than ever, and Sam wondered when this was going to shatter to pieces and end with her burning on the ceiling of his memories, taking with her all of the hope Sam had left._

_But they were outside, a bird chirping somewhere, grass impossibly green, sky a brilliant blue. No ceilings in sight and Jess was still smiling at him, tilting her head up and asking for a kiss. So Sam went with it, bending his head to meet her lips with his, trying to convey how much he loved her still, how much he missed her, without saying anything at all. Eventually though, he broke the kiss to say it out loud, holding her even tighter as if that way he could somehow keep her._

"_I love you, so much." He kissed the words against her jaw before meeting her lips again, so desperate to tell her, and make sure she knew. "Don't leave me, please" There were tears in Sam's eyes as they kissed, but he didn't care. Pride meant nothing to him compared to having Jess in his arms again._

"_It's nice of you to say that Sam. Really, you have no idea how much it means to hear you say that to me," Her voice was different all of a sudden, off somehow, and Sam pulled back a fraction to look at her – only now her features were different. Her hair tumbled down from the ponytail, shining like gold around her shoulders, her face becoming harder, no longer quite human-looking. She was magnificent and terrible, and then Sam understood._

"_Lucifer," He choked out, taking a step back as the reality crashed down on top of him like a blow. Jess truly was gone – not even Sam's memories of her safe from all of his enemies. He blinked in shock, trying to take it in and understand somehow why, barely noticing the tears that escaped._

"_Shh, Sam," the angel's tone was comforting; a mockery of Sam and Jess as he moved forwards to pull Sam back into his arms, and Sam couldn't seem to figure out how to resist. "Does this really surprise you so much? I figured this form would be a treat for you; more fitting," Her hands ran along Sam's back, and he shuddered. He'd always thought Jess could have somehow become an angel, and the irony just seemed so cruel, even for Lucifer. "You see, I love you too Sam. I want to take care of you, be inside you." The innuendo there wasn't lost on Sam either, but he was finding it hard to comprehend exactly what had happened. "I want you to want me."_

"_N- never," Sam tried to tell him, not quite able to will himself out of Jessica's arms. He missed her so much. When this ended, there was nothing left of her, there would never be again. "I won't say yes to you" He told Lucifer, even as he pulled him tighter, not even sure what, or why, he was doing anything at the moment. What if he was possessing Jess? Maybe there was something… "Jess," He pleaded, "Jess, if you can hear me at all,"_

"_I'm sorry," the angel told him, looking bizarrely like he meant it, "but I can't bring her back. I would if I could Sam, I really would."_

"_I know." Sam heard the words leave his lips before even realizing that he'd spoken aloud. No, of course. Jess was gone, and he was alone, left to fight these Trojan friends and learn to live on his own – with the nightmares, and the fear, and having it never end. Sam's throat was tight, hot tears stinging his cheeks as he was forced to contemplate the tragedy that was his life all over again. But he had to keep fighting. Why did he have to keep fighting?_

_Why did he have to be alone? Why did everyone he'd ever loved have to die? Why?_

_Why did it stretch on forever without ending – without any hope of death or absolution, ever? It was so big and so dark and so completely hopeless._

"_It doesn't have to be like that Sam," Lucifer assured him, proving his talent for mind-reading maybe, one hand reaching up and securing itself in the hair at the base of Sam's neck. "You don't have to be alone. I'm here."_

"_No," Sam tried to protest, this was all in his head – Lucifer wasn't really there anyway – _

_The angel tugged his head down gently, lips pressing against Sam's. "Yes." His voice took on a wistful quality to it, Jessica's eyes shining bright blue the same as they always had when she looked at Sam like that, like he was the center of her world, and she had something she just had to share with him. "Don't you wonder about it?" She asked, "Don't you ever think about how good it would feel to give in, to lose control? I could make it so good for you, if only you'd let me Sammy. No more need to be strong, to hold everything together while you're all alone and losing faith. Believe in me."_

_It was a promise. But Sam couldn't – he couldn't. "Dean," he told the angel, trying to step back, to get himself out of Lucifer's temping, consuming hold. He didn't want to say no anymore, tired of running, so tired, but he had to. "Dean's counting on me, the whole world is. I can't."_

"_Dean left you. The world abhors you, if it even pays you any attention whatsoever." The words stung, but Lucifer eased them away with another kiss. "I won't leave you Sam. I won't judge you like they do." Jessica's hands trailed over his body, inciting a protest in Sam's brain that he couldn't quite follow. It was her voice then, that spoke with such a sweet treason; Lucifer continued, "Let me prove it to you. No need to say anything; just let me in here, in your head, your dreams. Let me make you feel good Sam. Let me have control."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One:**

It's like he can't leave town fast enough. That senseless, directionless need to run that follows Sam everywhere is becoming too much again, and it's all he can do not to just get in the car and go – take off without a backward glance, because Sam knows he won't like what he sees. Instead, Sam's packing up the car with shaking hands, going as fast as he possibly can. The hair on the back of his neck is prickling. Sam knows the feeling all too well; there are eyes on him. Lucifer is closing in.

Since it's close by – nine hours, but then again, close is relative and it saves Sam from trying to figure out where he needs to go next – Sam decides to stop at Greenville cemetery. The second he pulls up though, it's obvious that was a mistake. All he can think about is Dean.

There's a history here. If he dug down an inch or two right there, slightly to the left over his mom's grave, he'd be able to feel what's left of their dad's dog tags. And it's still not his parents that he's thinking about. As much as he wishes now that he'd had the chance to know his mom, or to appreciate his dad, it's Dean. It's always been Dean.

Dean had been devastated when they'd come here. Sam was desperate to see their mom's grave and to understand, maybe make some sort of connection to her that was all his own and not a secondhand memory like everything else. It was too late for that though; Sam really should have known better. He should have seen the effect it had on Dean instead. Because Dean had really known their parents and was just itching for a fight to be able to control something in his life. Sam hadn't understood him then, but he does now.

He paces the cemetery for a few hours, looking for the slightest sign that something is off: dead grass around the headstones, anything. It doesn't matter that Sam hasn't hunted since he split up from Dean – two years ago now, and the world is going to shit, and he misses Dean so much Sam doubts that pain will ever go away if he lives to be a thousand – it would be something he could do, something he could fix, something Sam could control.

"He's not dead." Sam informs their mom's grave about an hour later, "He's going to do it too – he'll make you both proud." The subtext, _even if I can't_, only tacked on in Sam's head. And maybe he should have left a long time ago if he's started talking to inanimate objects now, but somehow, he can't bring himself to leave just yet. The saddest part is: Sam's not even sure if he's talking to their parent's grave, or if he's talking to himself. Or even which one of those would be worse at this point.

Then again, as long as they don't start talking back, Sam can't really bring himself to care.

That night he holes up in yet another crappy motel room. Years' worth of habit die hard, and if he can stick to that excuse, it's all good. Crippling brother issues aside – so what if he doesn't really need a double – the night is Lucifer's domain, and Sam knows it. He spends over an hour proofing the place from all comers: angels, demons, obscure deities and creatures alike, Sam's got a sigil for it and it's up on the walls, windows, ceiling, floor and every piece of furniture in between. He salts the doors, the windows, the entire perimeter of the room and even the drain in the sink and in the bathtub. Dean would be laughing his ass off if he saw Sam running around like a moron with a ten pound bag of salt – "Dude, if you just clogged the drain I'm going to kill you!" – but Dean's not here, and Sam doesn't feel safe. It certainly can't hurt to be a bit paranoid. Not with Lucifer after him.

Still, all the salt and devil's traps in the world can't protect Sam from himself.

He doesn't want to turn off the lights, but he does. What Sam wants to do does not involve lying there in bed waiting for sleep to ambush him. He wants to overdose on caffeine until he's fairly certain he won't have to sleep for the next week or two. Sleep is not an escape. It's a necessity.

Dean is there then – Sam can picture him almost perfectly in his head, lying across from him on the bed and grinning like he thinks Sam would lose his head if it weren't for Dean. "What's the big deal?' He'd say, his usual game face securely fastened. Even after hell he refused to ever admit to having nightmares. "Sleep is for triplets and latex" or "jello-wrestling orgies" Dean would tell him with a grin and a wink, punctuating it with a yawn for good measure.

It'd be okay to sleep then, with Dean watching over him and close enough to reach out and touch if Sam needed him. The nightmares wouldn't go away, but neither would Dean – and with Dean there Sam had always known that he was safe. Dean was a superhero; he could handle anything. Until he couldn't.

Dean shifts beside him on the bed, stretching languidly. He's got an easy grin and his eyes are half-lidded, telling Sam that they've got all day, and damn it all, he deserves a break every now and again.

His wistful flight of fancy is shattered by a sharp knock on the door to the motel room, and Sam is instantly alert. Any time after midnight it's never anything good and it's nearly two am by this point. Just because it's never good doesn't mean that it's not important though, and as much as Sam hates it, he has to know. His hand finds the knife below his pillow without any kind of conscious thought on Sam's part, and before he even crosses the room he's tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. He hasn't bothered to sleep in anything but his clothes in a long time, just in case.

"Fixing your hair in there princess?" A familiar voice drawls out teasingly. And oh god, this can't be real, can't be happening. They haven't spoken –

"Dean?" Sam checks, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob.

"No Sam, it's the pizza man." The sarcasm in his voice is overwhelming, and Sam worries for a second just how much he trusts it. Why now? Can it really be Dean?

He cracks the door cautiously, knife hidden behind it and other hand hovering close to his side, close enough to grab his gun in under a second flat if he needs to. Peering out from behind the door, Sam sees him.

"Long time no see Sammy," It's Dean, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, showing Sam that he's unarmed (bullshit, there'll be a gun tucked in the back of his pants, same as Sam) and he's grinning stupidly like he's just that happy to see Sam. The last time Sam saw a grin that enthusiastic, it was from something that wanted to eat him – the last time from Dean, he was drunk. Still, he's got a black eye and his hair's a bit longer, but it's undeniably Dean. Unless it isn't.

"Dean," Sam makes a show of pretending to relax, letting the door fall open and taking a step back to let Dean in on top of one of several devil's traps.

"Damn, I'm impressed," Dean drawls, his eyes flickering as he surveys the room, "didn't know you went to art school."

"Funny." Sam snaps back, not amused. The world is going to shit and he hasn't seen or heard from Dean in over two years, and now he's just going to waltz up in here like nothing ever happened? A distant memory of Stanford rises up, and Sam has to swallow it down quickly before he really starts to get all pissed off and melancholy. It's so typically Dean it's ridiculous.

On auto-pilot, Sam shuts the door, then turns to grab Dean by his wrist. He'd passed through the devil's trap, but Sam's got to be sure. Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything when Sam brings his knife down on Dean's arm. He winces a little bit when the blade pierces skin, but there's no screaming, no smoking out, no black eyes – the knife is silver, and it's been soaked in salt and holy water to boot – he's clean.

"Satisfied?" He asks, clapping his opposite hand over the tiny cut, eyes darting around a bit more, as if now he doesn't want to face Sam anymore, like he's regretting ever showing up. "Paranoid much?" He teases, but the look in his eyes is telling Sam that he wants to pull another disappearing act, because he has no idea what to say or how to relate like a human being anymore. Oh Dean, what have you done now?

Sam pulls him in for a hug before Dean can resist, arms tugging his brother tight to his chest. And huh – Dean's lost some weight too, even if it isn't too noticeable underneath all of his layers. It feels good to have him there, chest rising and falling against Sam's, a piece of his heart that doesn't seem like a leaden hole all of a sudden.

"Dude, chick flick moments," Dean reminds him, but doesn't push Sam away for another minute. It can be their little secret.

"So what's up?" Sam asks, trying to regain his attention when Dean breaks away to go look at the paper Sam's got out on the nightstand, since it's pretty obvious Dean's not going to volunteer any information on his own, and isn't mentioning the fact that they haven't seen each other in years. Sam's chest feels uncomfortably tight, but he pushes through it anyway.

"What's up?" Dean chuckles, flopping back onto Sam's bed like he's starting to remember their pattern again, "_that's_ what you're going to start with? _What's up_? Lame."

"Well I don't exactly see you trying to make conversation." It's much too easy to irritated with him, lounging on the bed like he owns the place, thinking he can just waltz back in and everything's peachy, "What the hell is up with you, you moron – you just show up out of nowhere – where have you been for the last few years?" _I left you so many messages and you never called me back, not once_, Sam wants to continue, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. That's heading into dangerous territory right there, not to mention the inevitable remarks from Dean about jealous and/or clingy girlfriends.

Dean regards him through slitted eyes from the bed like he's intrigued, but could really care less. Sam's willing to bet Dean has no idea why he's upset, and really could care less either way, but at least Dean responds to him, licking his lips before he starts in a way that's so obscene Sam feels a bit violated.

"I've been hunting Sam, unless you've forgotten what that's like. Killed another wendigo about a month back, but it's mostly been demons nowadays. Tell you the truth; I'm getting kinda sick of those sons of bitches." The remark is a bit pointed, but Sam shrugs it off, refusing to let it bother him, because hey – at least Dean's talking.

"Speaking of bitches," He sits up, looking excited again, eyes sparking as he gets ready to launch into what Sam figures is probably going to be a Dean's greatest hits of the apocalypse. Dimly, he wonders when Dean started referring to women as bitches – he'd slapped Sam for dropping that term back in middle school, insisting that no, it was not cool, and women were to be referred to as ladies – but Sam figures that must just be an end-of-the-world thing as his brother continues, "So back in Michigan I hooked up with this one chick, and let me tell you man, she was ki-i-nky… I mean, leather and floggers, the whole nine yards. I never thought I'd,"

"Next," Sam insists, really not wanting to know what new kink Dean has picked up, and slightly worried that his usual coping strategy is going to be ruined if Dean suddenly admits to being into getting hit.

"Fine, geez. Time before that was Ohio – hunted down yet another demon and the girl was pretty happy to have her own body back, if you catch my drift." He leers somewhat amusingly, and maybe Dean is drunk after all. "Before that… Oh." He trails off like he's stumbled upon something that he never meant to admit, and didn't think to stop himself in time. That's interesting.

"What?" Sam prompts him, even as he can practically see Dean trying to think his way out of it. He's interested, despite himself, easing his way onto the foot of the bed that his brother has ungraciously commandeered. As long as Dean doesn't admit to something too freaky – like, the hookup wasn't actually human (well, humanoid) or something, Sam's actually curious about what would make him hesitate. Though if it turns out that Dean got tentacle-raped and he liked it… yeah, Sam's finding a new room for the night.

"Aww hell," Dean decides, shit-eating grin slipping back into place suddenly, "turned out our angelic tax accountant was packing quite a punch under that trench coat," he confides, and Sam is convinced he's drunk now. "Mmm, nothing holy about the shit we did in bed Sammy – I swear, first time we didn't leave the room for about a week." And that's when Sam would love to believe that Dean's exaggerating, or just downright lying, but he gets the sickening feeling that Dean's not.

Mentally scarring imagery aside – which Sam is really, really trying not to think about – it's obvious Dean is pretty wrecked, and Sam's not sure he wants to know why. But Dean's his brother after all.

Just like when they were younger, Sam crawls up the bed to join him, careful not to make the crappy springs creak too much. He lays down facing Dean so they're eye to eye, only about a foot of space between them. "What happened?" He asks instead of everything else that comes to mind first like 'what the hell were you thinking?' or 'How and why did you decide you wanted Castiel?' or even 'He went along with this?' because as far as Sam ever figured, the angel had as much sexuality as an amoeba. Or some other asexual, budding bit of microscopy he used to know back in college.

"World's gone to shit Sam," As if Sam doesn't know that, but he can see the barest hint of tears forming in Dean's eyes, can smell the liquor on his breath now, and so he doesn't say anything. "Got drunk, wanted a fuck, he was there. Said he'd do anything for me." His breath hitches, and there are definitely tears in his eyes now. Sam's insides clench painfully as he watches his brother, but he forces himself to listen, thinking _You stupid angel. How could you do that to my brother – how could you care about him like that?_

"Fuckin' loved me Sammy." And yeah, Sam had seen it – hell, Dean had been the only one who hadn't seen it – "and now he's just, I don't even know what happened to him. Disappeared under all those Croats. Shouldn't have run…"

Dean's about a second away from a breakdown, and Sam's left wondering how the hell they ended up here. For hating chick flicks, Dean sure seems to be asking for one, and Sam's fingers are twitching at his sides with the need to reach out and touch – comfort. He doesn't though, holding back because he honestly doesn't know what to do, or how he'll be received. He doesn't know this Dean who's finally experienced heartbreak for himself, because that's the only conclusion Sam can come to, and he certainly doesn't know any Dean who will actually open up and tell him about it, get emotional, or even admit that he feels beyond hunger and lust, even when drunk. It's a whole new kind of uncanny valley.

"It just sucks." Dean growls suddenly, looking in control of himself once more, "you ruined it all. You destroyed the fucking world Sam, all for that bitch and your goddamn demon blood. Was it worth it? Are you fucking happy now – now that you got what you want and Cas is dead and you can go on and be all freaky antichrist demon boy like you want to?"

It's a punch to the gut, and Sam can't breathe all of a sudden, tears prickling at his eyes as quickly as they'd disappeared from Dean's. "I don't, Dean, what?' He doesn't have a defense for this, can't even believe Dean would ever go so low. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts.

"People, good people, are all dead because of you. Bobby's dead. Ellen. Jo. All demons who claimed they were following you. So that's it huh? Got yourself an army; big bad Sammy all of a sudden?"

"Please, Dean" Sam begs him, wanting to cover his ears but entranced all the same. Like watching a train-wreck unfold, he's paralyzed, letting Dean's poison seep over him. "I haven't, I don't – please Dean, stop!" And finally, he does.

Dean takes a deep breath, calming himself down like he has absolutely no comprehension of Sam's reaction to his sudden tirade. "Sorry," he sighs finally, green eyes peaceful again like the calm before the storm, "I can't really blame you. After all, that was the plan from the start." He blinks lazily, looking like an overgrown cat for a second in his contentment that Sam can't seem to figure out. The scent of alcohol is gone from his breath, and Sam is still reeling trying to follow what just happened.

When Dean winks at him then, his eyes are yellow.

"Nice going Sammy," he says, "I always knew you had it in you."

Sam blinks, because he's got to be hallucinating. All the sleep deprivation from the nightmares and trying to avoid Lucifer is catching up with him is all. But when he opens his eyes again, Yellow-eyes is still smirking at him from his brother's meat suit. "I have to hand it to you kiddo, you did even better than I could have ever imagined." But this can't be possible, it can't!

"You're, you're dead," Sam splutters out, scrambling back and nearly falling off the edge of the bed as he tries to get away from the demon.

"Guess again." There's a grin on Azazel's face as he sits up, not bothering to come after Sam just yet. He's trapped, back pressed against the wall and probably getting chalk on his jacket from a sigil or two, and they both know it. "You think humans were the only things to be raised with the apocalypse? It's the beginning of the end Sammy, and _we've all got you to thank._"

"No," The denial slips from his lips as Sam desperately tries to assure himself that this can't be real. He glances sideways to his devil's trap, and part of it is missing. Eyes darting around the room as Dean's had, Sam starts to see missing links on every one of his sigils – worthless, every one. He's completely unprotected, naked and hyperventilating in the corner.

"Well, I've got to ready your army," Dean – Azazel tells him with a salute, "Glad we had that talk."

With that, he throws his head back, mouth falling open, and Sam realizes what's going to happen before it does. The black smoke pours out from between Dean's slack lips, filling the room in an instant, so thick Sam can't see a thing in front of him, but he hears Dean cry out all the same.

"Sam!" He sounds panicked, and Sam stumbles forward blindly, trying to get to his brother. "Sam! Help!" The smoke is making it hard to breathe now, like it's sucking all of the air out of the room. He has to get to Dean though, pushes on. He trips over something, cursing as he flails momentarily, trying to stay on his feet.

"Dean!" Where is he? Sam can't make out the room, but surely – there's a scream of what can only be pain, and it sounds like – "Dean!" Sam yells again, "Dean!" but there's no reply, even as the smoke starts to dissipate. It's getting even thicker, denser in the center, and then it's rushing upwards with a terrible speed. There's a sudden burst of white-hot light and pain that leaves Sam blinking hard against the haze covering his vision, and what a vision it is.

Gaping hellfire as the ceiling goes up in a huge fireball. Dean's at the center of it, and the thick, choking smell of burnt hair and flesh forces its way into Sam's mouth and lungs, so tight he can't breathe. Can't move for a second, and then it registers. "Dean!" He screams, struggling forward into the inferno. He has to save Dean – Dean who's burning up with this shocked expression on his face, like he'd never known being burned alive could possibly hurt so much.

"Dean!" He's clamoring onto the bed, directly underneath his brother, trying to reach him. He can feel the heat – hotter than the six shades of Hell against his skin – blistering, searing, ripping and melting at the same time. Tears are stabbing at his eyes, the black, suffocating smoke tearing at his eyes as well, blurring Sam's vision to the point where he's all but blind.

It's too much, way too much – he can't see, can't breathe, can't feel past the pain – but he has to get to Dean. Unseeingly Sam reaches out, trying to get his hand to connect. "De," he tries, and ends up choking on the noxious smoke. And then his hand brushes along sizzling flesh, scalding him just before he falls, losing his precarious balance to the spasming of his chest.

His senses long since overloaded, Sam doesn't even have the strength to get back up, unable to tell what's even up or down at this point. He sinks down against the molten carpet, retching blood and bile from his thoroughly destroyed – flambéed – lungs and windpipe. There's no air in this place, just the arid smoke forcing its way down his throat, ripping up his insides. Sam coughs and chokes, his ruined sight darkening even more, the flames branded against his eyes fading now. There's no breath to scream, but Sam does his best. "De," He mewls, clutching at his throat, but the hoarse whimper dies on his lips. It's too late. Dean is past saving. And now, so is Sam.

He's suffocating. Can't breathe. Sam kicks out desperately, trying to dislodge the sheets sticking to his skin like a straightjacket. He's suffocating.

For a moment he's stuck, struggling helplessly, breath coming in panicked bursts. It's hot and tight and he's sweating like crazy and oh god he can't breathe!

Thrashing around isn't doing any good and Sam needs to get away but he can't, flailing uselessly and trying to dislodge his bonds. Everything is dark – pitch black and closing in on him. His sharp, staccato breaths are the only noise, much too loud in Sam's ears and even to him they sound terrifying. "Dean!" Sam cries out, needing his brother to save him from this new, terrible nightmare.

All of a sudden, the bed disappears out from under him, and Sam's falling. There's that awful feeling in his gut for a second, and he struggles even harder, trying desperately to get free.

He lands hard, and Sam loses all of the breath left in his lungs as he hits the ground. He can't do anything but lie there for a long moment, paralyzed by fear and gasping for air like a fish out of water. Finally though, he's free from the covers, scrambling away from them to lean against the bed and trying to get himself under control.

The darkness settles over him like a wet blanket, but Sam's never been afraid of the dark. It's the fire he fears – the fire that devours everything he's ever loved. He needs Dean now, more than ever, and Sam glances up at the other bed, tracing his brother's outline there. But it's only his duffle, because Dean is gone.

Doesn't matter. Sam has to know, has to hear Dean's voice. Dean, who can make everything okay. So he reaches up, snags his phone from the bedside table that he only narrowly missed cracking his head on when he fell, and holds it to his chest like a life preserver for a second. When he presses the button to call Dean – the only number Sam has on speed-dial – his hands are still trembling, but it's okay. Dean will make it all okay.

Sam clutches the phone to his head, his entire body straining unconsciously to hear his brother's gruff voice, and for a second he allows himself to wonder if Dean will be tired and pissed off, or wide awake and glad to hear from him too, depending on what time zone he's in now, but either way Sam's ready to deal with the fallout. He just needs to know that Dean's still alive and still fighting, and that it's all going to be okay.

"We're sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service." A cool, female voice tells him. But she doesn't understand, and Sam tells her that.

"Please, I need to speak to my brother."

The three note tone sounds again. "We're sorry. The number you have dialed-" Sam hangs up, the urge to throw the phone across the room as hard as he possibly can, preferably destroying it, is almost overwhelming.

He resists the impulse though. So Dean got a new burn phone. Certainly wouldn't be the first time. Doesn't mean anything. He still has Sam's number. _Not that he ever calls you_, that little voice in the back of Sam's head taunts him, and there's only one thing he can think of then.

Forcing himself to his feet, Sam clicks the light on finally, surveys his sigils. They all stare back at him like empty eyes – reminding him of death – but they're all intact. Even lit by a cheap lamp that throws more shadows than it resolves, it's somehow easier to look at the room now and realize that it wasn't real. This looks solid, undeniable, despite the slightly flickering light. This is what's real. It was just a nightmare.

The yellow-eyed demon is dead, and Dean is alive. Probably.

Overreacting, maybe, but Sam needs to know for sure. Dean's his hope, after all, the memory he clings to above all others as his reason to keep fighting. Without Dean, he's as good as lost.

"Castiel," Sam calls out, trying not to remember his dream. Whether Dean has or hasn't defiled the angel – which is now all that Sam can think about: would he have, if given the chance? – Precedence argues a pretty good case in that the angel is never too far from his brother. At least he'll know something, so Sam can push down the sudden flare of jealousy over the fact that an angel knows where his brother is and he doesn't. In all fairness, he's sure the angels know a lot of things that he doesn't. But it wasn't the angel that Dean pushed away.

"Castiel, it's umm, Sam Winchester. I know we don't really talk, especially now, but," He feels ridiculous, and more than a bit like he's just talking to himself. Still, Sam pushes on, glancing furtively around him in case Castiel decides to appear. "I uhh, I was wondering if Dean was okay 'cause, you know, I really miss him and," If this isn't the most retarded thing he's ever tried to do… "So yeah." Sam finishes lamely, before he winds up trying to spill his feelings to all of heaven. That's one confessional that doesn't need to happen.

He waits for about a minute with no response. "You know, a sign would be really nice, or something. Please?" That's probably the moment when he should have given up, but it somehow coincides with realizing that he's angel-proofed the room instead. How is he supposed to know how that might affect the angel-radio? So, still feeling like an idiot, Sam fishes a dirty tee shirt out of his duffle bag, and messes up his perfect salt ring around the drain wetting it.

There are twelve enochian sigils around the room keeping him protected. Sam debates it for a second, impromptu cleaning rag dripping onto the rug, before deciding that it's probably worth it. Meaning mostly, if it works. He doesn't know how the angels communicate, or how much they can hear, but hopefully Lucifer just isn't listening in right now.

Maybe it's a mistake, but Sam kneels in front of the first sigil anyway, visually tracing the lines that took him so long to perfect before raising the wet shirt. He figures that all he needs to do is erase a part of it, breaking it the same way he would a devil's trap. Then, he repeats that with the other eleven, again daring to hope against all hope, and probably sanity, that he won't regret it.

"A word, Castiel?" Sam pleads quietly, hoping that no one else can hear him, and this really is a new low. Might as well go for broke. "Uriel? Anna? Michael? Someone?" Those are honestly the only angels that he knows, save a certain fallen one who'd be all too happy to come, should Sam ever decide to call. Figuring, what the hell, Sam adds a few more names, mostly making it up as he goes. Whether those actually correspond to angels or not is anyone's guess; he'll have to look them up later.

There's still no answer. Sam should have known it would be useless, but that's what he gets for trying.

He really should fix the sigils, but he doesn't yet. Maybe someone will show up just yet, even if common sense is telling Sam that that's really just wishful thinking at this point. Instead, he flops back onto his bed like Dean had, more than a little bit discouraged. The phone's still in his hand though.

That simple reminder is enough to make Sam remember the last time he heard from Dean – a voicemail left around mid-afternoon, following after about a dozen times Sam had called and Dean hadn't answered. Not that he called consecutively or anything. Just, every couple of weeks or so. He's dialing his voicemail before he even realizes what he's doing.

It's the last message he has from Dean – just over a year old now.

"Hey Sam, it's Dean. Look, I miss you too, but it's honestly better this way, better that we don't see each other. This way they can't use us against one another, can't get us together for their whole, huge prize-fight for the universe. Nothing like stickin' it to the man, huh?" The angels are dicks, Sam thinks, unwilling to believe that he used to pray to such cruel creatures, or that he ever thought they were kind. They've torn his brother away from him – the same brother that Sam can't even decide how he feels about anymore. Half the time he wishes he could kill Dean, and the other half Sam needs him so bad it feels like it's going to eat him alive. "Goddamnit Sam, I miss you so much. I think about you, okay? Please stay safe, whatever you're doing nowadays." It's totally a coincidence that Sam's eyes are starting to sting now, and he rubs them unconsciously as he listens to the message. It seems dangerously close to last words. "Don't give in, don't ever stop fighting. Don't say yes to that bastard, got it? Otherwise I'm seriously gonna have to kick your ass. 'Sides, I know you can do it Sam; if anyone can, it's you. You _can _do it. I believe in you."

So what if there are silent tears running down his cheeks? "I can't Dean," Sam whispers, wishing it was enough just to hear his voice, but it's not. Not even close. "Not without you. I can't."

Dean thinks – thought? – they're stronger apart, but he's wrong. Sam never knew just how much he relied on Dean being there to keep him together until Dean up and left him. He doesn't even know what to do with himself anymore, because everything reminds him of Dean in some way. It's worse than when Jess died.

Perhaps it's no big surprise then, that when he finally wears himself out and slips into the realm of unconsciousness, Sam finds himself in Jessica's arms once again. This time, she holds him, mumbling sweet nothings that really mean everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two:**

The next day is better. As usual, there are good days and bad days. Today is a good day; it's that simple. Sam's convinced of it almost first thing in the morning, sitting on the edge of his crappy car and reading the paper as the sun struggles to make its way over the horizon through the thick morning fog. First of all, it's a beautiful day, and second, he's found a hunt.

By now Sam's almost convinced that his main problem is too much time to think, and that solves that. Even more than that though, it'll be nice to make himself useful to society again for once. Time to get back on the horse, so to speak.

That prospect alone has him smiling to himself as he finishes his – admittedly, quite terrible – morning cup of coffee, and for once, it's not Lucifer, or Jess, or the apocalypse, or Dean on his mind. Instead, he's analyzing the killings. They're definitely not human, and the longer Sam looks at the paper, reads over the case details, the more he's sure it's a demon.

All in all, Sam interviews three witnesses: two teenagers who found the bodies, who he thinks may have been possessed at one time as well, and the policeman who found them. There's sulfur in the clearing out in the woods where the bodies were, marks on a tree that look satanic in nature, and more than a bit of blood, of which Sam can't tell how much was meant to be ritual. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the kids summoned it somehow before it got loose on them. When will they ever learn not to play with the occult?

The police officer was only helpful in taking Sam to the clearing and down to autopsy. Past that, he doesn't know much more than conjecture, and wants to believe it was some kind of wild animal. After all, that is what the kids are sticking to – that some huge, dark, animal-like thing killed their friend during their completely innocent meet-up in the middle of the night. Sam doesn't believe it for a moment. The story is much too well carefully considered, the details that they do give much too perfect. They're covering something up at the very least.

"Come on," he hears, after sneaking into the backyard and crouching down next to the basement window that he may or may not have cracked for that purpose long after the two of them think he's left. "He's just a cop! He has no fucking idea what we're doing, same as the other one. They all think it's an animal for crying out loud!" The guy is trying to convince his girlfriend, and that's really all Sam needs to cement his case. The kids are definitely up to something, and it's not just toilet papering houses. He stays just long enough to gather that they'll be going back to the clearing tonight, and then Sam bides his time.

To pass the time until dark he wanders around in the woods mostly, getting the feel for them so that he's not at too much of a disadvantage when it comes time to fight. There aren't many places to hide, and even less places to hide a devil's trap unfortunately. Sam settles for trying to clear as many leaves from a few different spots around the periphery of their chosen "altar", spray painting the devil's trap on the ground, and covering it back up. It's a bit obvious that someone's been messing around there, but Sam's hoping they'll figure it was the law enforcement's search that turned up all of those leaves, or that they won't look too closely to begin with.

By the time darkness falls, Sam has managed to find a decent hiding place behind a particularly thick bush, and he'll just have to hope that they don't come close enough to see him. Already he's cramping up, a crick in his back and in his neck from remaining crouched down for so long. Luckily, he doesn't have to wait too much longer.

"Are you sure about this?" The girl whines, stumbling after the boy through the undergrowth as if they'd never heard of the term 'subtlety'. She's carrying what looks like a shoebox, and it's rattling with every step she takes, while the boy is carrying a plastic container that appears to be heavy. It's not hard to guess that they've got bones and blood, respectively, and if it wasn't so serious, Sam might have had to stifle a laugh. As it is, they've already proved that they're deadly, or the obscure, dated ritual they're using would be downright hysterical. Obviously they never got the memo that the only thing needed nowadays is a bit of Latin, and maybe a candle or two.

Which they have plenty of as well, Sam sees when they unpack, setting up the altar much faster than he'd expected. It's clearly not as new to them as he thought, and huh – maybe he should have researched the deaths in the area a bit more, because there's no way that the last death was the first. They're actually competent, and that's a bit scary in itself.

"Come on, stop being such a pussy." The boy tells the girl, pulling out his lighter. "He says he'll reward us beyond our wildest dreams. Anything you want baby, all for this one little thing."

What thing? Sam can't help but wonder. What are they trying to accomplish here? He doesn't see anyone else with them, so it doesn't look like a sacrifice, but the way he's speaking about it makes it sound like a lot more than just trying to get good grades or cure his acne.

The girl takes a deep breath, visibly relaxing. "You're right." She tells him, tilting her head up for a kiss, and whoa – Sam's pretty sure that tonsil-hockey isn't part of the ritual. Finally, they break apart, just as Sam was starting to get worried that they'd go for 'The Great Rite', because eww, they're like, 16.

"Ready?" He asks her, taking a step back and flicking the lighter on. She nods silently, and the boy goes to light the first candle, dipping his fingers in their container of blood, and smearing it on the wax as he does. The girl starts chanting and he moves around the circle, lighting candles and smearing blood as he goes. There's no wind whatsoever, but the candles that are lit flicker ominously in the darkness.

It takes Sam a minute to notice that it's actually getting darker and darker with every candle the boy lights, like the candles aren't shedding light, but sucking it out of the surroundings instead. He really should have done his research; this is some serious black magic. Not the kind of thing he was expecting from two highschoolers, so he hadn't bothered to research the details, other than the common signs of summoning a demon. In his haste to jump into the hunt, it's clear Sam should have paid more attention. It's a stupid, rookie mistake.

The boy joins her in the chanting then, the two of their voices rising and falling together in a language that is definitely not Latin. It sounds almost eastern – something far more ancient, and probably that much more deadly is being summoned here than just an ordinary, garden variety demon. The candles flicker again, and then they're meeting each other in the center of their circle, joining hands before they're suddenly kissing again. A bit more chanting, and suddenly everything goes black.

"Come out come out wherever you are Sammy," It hisses, the wind suddenly picking up as the moon disappears and the candles go out. There's something slithering across the ground, but there's complete and total silence. Sam feels it rather than hears it, worrying for a second that his hearing has been taken somehow. Something is heavy and thick in the air though – pure evil.

The girl's sudden shrieks split the air, disturbing the silence. Sam can just barely see the boy advancing on her, wicked looking knife in hand, and where'd he get that from? It's just one clusterfuck after another and he doesn't have a plan in the slightest, but Sam has to act now or watch the girl die.

The branches whip against his skin as Sam launches himself forward. "Hey!" he yells, trying to get the boy's attention off of the girl, and it works. He turns, starting to advance on Sam instead, and his eyes are black.

"Sammael," The demon greets him, bowing in a way that could be sincere, but really just gives Sam the impression that it's mocking him. He sends a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, even though he doubts it will do much good. "We have been waiting for you centuries now. Why have you not laid waste?" Oh great, yet another fan of Sam's so called 'destiny' to end the world.

"I've been a bit busy," Sam tries, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice even though he realizes that might not be the wisest approach to a clearly powerful demon. The little bit of light from the moon has returned, but Sam can't even clearly see the boy's outline since the light seems to avoid even the air around this demon. Or maybe it's devouring it. Either way, the thing is one scary son of a bitch.

"Busy praying," it snarls, "you pray to angels and to _god_, what blasphemies! Have you forgotten yourself Sammael?" It continues to advance on him, and Sam clenches his fingers tighter around the handle of his demon killing knife. His fingers are slick with sweat against its handle, and somehow Sam's wagering that it's not going to work even as he raises it to protect himself. "Let me remind you."

Sam is thrown off his feet by an invisible force, flung across the clearing and into a tree as easily as a pebble, or something equally small and insignificant. His head cracks against the trunk, and the pain blinds him for a second before he realizes that he's stuck there. The demon is holding him in place telepathically as it advances on the girl, who looks like she regrets not running when she had the chance.

"Payment," the demon says, sounding once again like a snake as he approaches her, mesmerizing as he glides across the ground. "Blood and flesh – it is our due," and Sam can't see its face, but he can hear the smile in its voice. "I know you appreciate them Sammael. I've seen you feast upon our own kind." She's frozen in place, and Sam struggles to get free, fighting desperately against his invisible chains. Tight bands around his lungs, he can barely breathe, but he's not going to give up. The knife slips from between his fingers, hitting the forest floor with barely a sound. He's not going to be able to save her in time.

It appears to have hypnotized her, because she still doesn't move when the demon slithers around her, grabbing her from behind. Sam can see her face swimming in front of his vision, frozen in nothing less than a mask of fear. "Beautiful," the demon says, its tongue flicking out against her neck to sample the skin there, and its face is twisted up to reveal teeth that glint impossibly large. He's going to bite and Sam resumes struggling with renewed vigor, trying desperately to get free. Something drips against his neck, and he realizes belatedly that he's bleeding, not that it really matters now.

"Stop!" He yells, watching the demon draw back in preparation to strike. "Don't," there's not enough breath left in his lungs to continue that statement, but the demon freezes all the same, without him needing to complete it.

"You are right; I forget my place Sammael," it says. Right, it thinks Sam is a greater demon.

"I forbid you to kill her." He commands. Might as well work that to his advantage. "And demand that you release me."

It laughs. It throws back its head and laughs, the pungent scent of carrion filling the air. "You've grown weak," It chuckles, voice like grating glass. But the bands around Sam disappear, and he falls to the ground. The world is spinning alarmingly, and Sam worries that he's about to throw up for a second, but pushes it back. His hand finds the handle of the knife, and he clutches onto it for dear life. "Still, I must not forget my place," The demon looms over him in the blackness, still holding tightly to the girl. Her mouth is closed, but her eyes are wide, fluttering like trapped butterflies and begging Sam to save her.

There's a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach again, because Sam already knows it's too late for her. "Get up Sammael," it taunts, "Rise, my lord, and regain your strength. Take your rightful sacrifice."

Sam's brain shudders to a halt suddenly. There's really nothing…

Shit.

He staggers to his feet, not sure whether he should attempt to correct the demon or not. He can't – he's not going to – to _eat_ this girl. The world is swimming in front of him again. Trying to get some bearing, Sam tightens his grip on the knife, preparing to use it. He's not going down without a fight.

God save me, Sam thinks, stumbling forward a lot less forcefully than he'd meant to, his body betraying him in his attack on the demon. It grins, and Sam watches in what feels like slow motion as it moves the girl onto the point of his knife instead.

The silence is spoiled again with her soft cry, the knife disappearing into her ribcage with an accompanying dull thud. "No," Sam breathes, unable to really comprehend the hot liquid dribbling out around the hilt of his knife and onto his fingers.

"Delicious," the demon purrs, leaning forward, and Sam flinches away, but it simply sucks his fingers into its mouth, kitten soft somehow as it sucks the blood from his skin. It dips its own fingers into the wound, and offers them up to Sam, smearing the blood across his lips.

Sam keeps his mouth stubbornly closed, horrified at the sight in front of him, but the demon doesn't seem to notice. It bends it's head, ripping a huge chunk of flesh from the girl's neck without a second thought. Her eyes stare on blankly, somehow not seeming to accuse as her head flops senselessly against her shoulder.

And then the demon drops her, licking its lips as it comes back at Sam, shoving him against the tree before he can react. Its lips are on his even as Sam struggles to push it off, the demon so much stronger than he is, blacking out the light completely. Sam's not sure of anything in the blackness except for the insistent tongue and teeth against his mouth, trying to force an entry. He struggles against the darkness, the smell of rotting meat filling his senses.

Sam's body is failing him, much too weak to fend off a demon with supernatural strength. He has no choice, he tells himself, but to rely on the last weapon he has left, even though he swore never to use it again. _Forgive me Dean_. He concentrates as hard as he can, withdrawing into the back of his mind where he can feel the thin current of force. Sam wills it to grow, putting all he has into building up the power there.

The demon takes advantage of his distraction, finds a breach, and forces its tongue into Sam's mouth. He can taste the blood and the flesh in its mouth, swallowing down the liquid that dribbles into his mouth before he can form a conscious thought, simply so he doesn't drown. It's coppery and salty at the same time – nothing like demon blood, and Sam is shocked out of his trance when he realizes that he _enjoys it_.

The power that he's building up, trying to kill the demon, dissipates with his shock, and Sam is just Sam again, kissing the monster back furiously. He wants more of that taste, that juicy blood and flesh taste, open-mouthed and battling the demon for it. Sam's dizzy with it, but the demon must be too, because it lets Sam take control.

He flips them around, forcing the demon against the tree as he chases the taste of meat from its toothy jaws. "More," he grows into the thing's mouth, when Sam is satisfied he's gotten all that he can from it. It's a heady, dark kind of power that's burning through him, and it feels right to be commanding this demon. Simply because he can.

Not waiting for the demon to return to the corpse, Sam simply bites on its lip, tugging at it viciously with his teeth. He doesn't show any mercy. The demon whimpers, but Sam disregards it, feeling its blood begin to well up from under his teeth. This is demon's blood though, and it burns like alcohol – no, more like fire – down his throat, proving that there's nothing Sam has to fear anymore. It's addictive as hell.

Sam can feel the power building up inside of him again as he ravages the demon's mouth. His hands twist in the boy's hair to keep him there, and to hold him up as well, because Sam's knees are going weak with the sensations. He's starting to get hard in his jeans, and oh – that's new. He's never even noticed guys that way, not like Dean. The boy isn't even all that attractive.

It's a boy. That thought hits him like a slap to the face, and Sam pulls back as if he's been burned. The demon is possessing some poor kid, and this is so, so wrong, in so many ways. He can taste the blood thick on his tongue. Shame twists his stomach up into a knot. What the fuck is he doing?

At the same time though, there's something dark in him that's been woken up, and it's still clamoring for more. The demon was right – blood and flesh – he needs it there, in that dark part of him, the part that's strongest out of all of him. Sam is torn. He doesn't want to do bad, but he's drawn to it with such ferocity that it's inevitable. Even now, all of the energy inside of him is clamoring to be used, the power demanding to be exerted, and Sam wants to more than anything. He wants to devour this demon that would mock him and taunt him. Put it in its rightful place. Beneath him. _Let's rule the world,_ Lucifer's words echo in Sam's head, and he's never been more amicable.

It's practically nothing then, nothing at all to think it, and then the demon is being fried from the inside out by nothing more than the power of Sam's mind. He can feel it radiating out of him, loving the feel of this power. He can crush demons in his hand if he so chooses and it's _exhilarating_.

The demon crumples, leaving Sam delirious and dizzy with his high. He's drunk off of it, looking around at the mess he's made without any sort of regret, before it catches up to him and Sam's legs give out. The world is spinning again, but not in any kind of pleasant way. It's all a bit too fuzzy around the edges, and Sam feels like his head is about to split open. He reaches up a hand, and he can feel wetness there.

It comes away red.

Huh, Sam thinks, already starting to get distracted by the mesmerizing swirls of blood covering the leaves in front of him, he's probably got a concussion. Lord knows he's had enough of them in his life, but he's starting to feel just how much it took out of him to kill the demon. Sam can feel the decent of unconsciousness stealing over him. The world is going gray, and it's not long now.

He lets his head drop onto the leaves – too heavy to hold up anyway – and he knows in that sensible part of his brain that he really shouldn't, that he could slip into a coma so easily or just fucking die, but really, he's too tired to care. Everything starts to darken, and then it goes black.

Sam's disoriented when he wakes up, not really sure where he is, or what's going on. The last thing he remembers… There was a demon, he – oh god. His head throbs painfully, and Sam goes to drop it against his arms to block out the light, but he can't. There's no light to block out and his arms are suspended above him, wrists chained together and dangling from what must be the ceiling. His senses are starting to come back to him, and Sam looks around, but he can't see anything but the darkness. He can feel though, and something is holding his ankles apart, forcing him into a wide stance.

He's naked. If his head wasn't hurting like it might just crack open without warning, he might have cared a bit more. As it is, this is some bizarre, trippy dream, and he can honestly handle being nude. It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing. At least he's alone.

"Think again Sammy," Jess steps out of the blackness, seeming to illuminate the entire space. The light is shining out of her, and there's no mistaking the brilliance of an archangel's grace.

"Lucifer," Sam acknowledges him through clenched teeth, rage welling up in the pit of his stomach as he struggles with the chains. How dare he take Jessica's form. How dare he chain Sam up like an animal. "Let me go. Now." The pain feeds his anger, and Sam can feel the power building up inside his body. Fuck, he's never killed an angel before, but he's excited to try.

"Relax," the angel tells him, reaching out and stroking his bare chest, her eyes glinting with an emotion that might as well be a reflection of Sam's. "You're so beautiful like this Sam, I just can't help myself." Lucifer smiles, walking around him but never breaking contact, hand gliding across Sam's skin until he can feel her standing behind him. "Tell me, how does it feel? What's it like to kill Abbadon, who held my cage for so many millennia?" Jessica's voice is breathy, liquid sex that sounds like ecstasy to Sam's ears. "I can still taste his blood on you," She breathes, right against his neck, and Sam can feel the shivers shoot up his spine before she bites, sucking a hickey against his skin.

His blood is pounding through his veins, because this – this feels amazing. "I know you like it," Lucifer continues, "The rush of power, that feeling of being so out of control with it while controlling everything. That's what I'm like. All the time." A touch to his ass without warning has Sam sucking in a quick breath, and he shudders as Lucifer's hand explores his body. It stops at his hip, fingers dipping into the place where his leg meets his torso, and Sam has to hold back a moan. Just a little bit further, he thinks, his dick full and aching to be touched.

Instead, "Bastard." He growls out, trying his best not to arch into the touch and give Lucifer the satisfaction. She smiles against his ear, nipping at the lobe a second later.

"Join with me."

There are two ways that statement could be interpreted, but there's really only one way Sam's interested in. He yanks against the chains again, but they refuse to give. "Let me go." He challenges, and he can feel Jessica's hand snake down against his back until her knuckles are touching his ass again.

"All hot and bothered, are we?" She taunts, and Sam knows she's fingering herself now, can feel as her knuckles brush back and forth against him and can hear the slight wet sounds of flingers sliding against a girl's cunt. It takes less than a minute for it to start driving him insane.

He's hard and desperate for it, but Sam grits his teeth. He's not going to beg. "Mmm," Lucifer mewls, her mouth closing over the back of Sam's neck now. It's as if all of him is concentrated there, because her lips are all he feels. Not the ache in his arms from being held up for so long, or the accompanying burn in his shoulders; Sam feels the tingle of skin on skin as soft lips brush against his hairline.

He nearly startles when those lips part and a warm tongue is swiping across his neck, setting his entire body burning. "F-fuck," he gasps out, shuddering again, and Lucifer huffs a hot breath of silent laughter. Then the angel bites down again, delicate pinpricks of pain that travel the length of Sam's spinal cord and back before repeating the circuit. His skin is tugged at artfully between Jessica's teeth, and he knows how good she is with that sinful mouth of hers.

He wants it around his dick, but Lucifer apparently has other ideas. The angel pulls back, not stopping for a second to let Sam breathe before her hands are running down his back, nails scraping against flesh that Sam had never figured would be that sensitive. "See," Lucifer whispers, breath warning Sam a second before she plants a kiss on his lower back. Her fingers trace lower, caressing his ass for a second before she's digging in her nails again, and the confused sensations of pleasure and pain are turning Sam's brain into mush.

His hips buck forwards, straining for some kind of release, but there's none to be found. "Giving up control can be so much fun Sammy," Lucifer continues, one finger dipping down to press against his pucker, and oh holy fuck. Sam tries to squirm away from the touch, but he's essentially bound in place. He can't even close his legs because of the spreader bar, and nearly roars in frustration when he realizes it.

"Fucking bitch," He growls, because his balls are tight and painful with need, but it's not looking like Lucifer was planning to pay them attention any time soon, and Sam feels like he could burst. If he was getting fucking something – anything – which he's not.

"Language Sam," Lucifer chastises him, nipping at his ass cheek, "is that any way to speak to a lady?" She sounds much too pleased with herself, and Sam clenches his jaw again to keep from screaming. Her hands are moving over his body again, threading themselves around his legs, caressing the thickly banded muscle of his thighs. Again, just a few inches up – it's unbearable.

Sam's hips jerk forward against her touch again, but the angel holds him in place easily, chuckling against the damp skin of his lower back. Even her breath is a tease against his skin. Sam's overheated with pleasure to the point where it feels like he's about to burn up. Still, he refuses to beg her for it despite the protests from his throbbing dick.

"Submit to me," It's a challenge as much as it is a request.

"Never." He's much too headstrong to want Lucifer taking control of his life, not to mention the earth-wreaking potential there. Sam likes to be the one in control, but even he can't deny how good everything feels right now.

"We'll rule the world together." She tells him, hands creeping back up to his ass, "We can build it any way you'd like. I'll even make sure Dean and that angel of his live to see it."

"No." She digs her fingers in even harder, losing her patience, and Sam almost grins before she blows out a cold breath right against his ass. Then he shivers, holding back another curse. Lucifer is taunting him and he knows it, so Sam just won't take the bait.

"I'll make you feel so good Sammy," The angel tells him, voice like silk, and there's no warning before she leans in, nose brushing against him before there's a wet tongue flicking over Sam's hole.

"Fuck!" Sam gasps, his hips jerking forward and pulling him away from her mouth before he can stop himself. He can feel the bit of precum dribble from the tip of his dick as it bobs up against his stomach in agreement, flushed red and swollen by this point. "Oh,"

"Like that, do you?" Jessica's hands grasp his hips again, thumbs still against his ass and pulling his cheeks apart while her other fingers are burrowing into his hipbones. She laps at him again, licking like a kitten might, and the teasing sensation is at once way too much and not nearly enough. It's all Sam can do not to test her grip and try to squirm from where her nails are too tight against his skin. "Mmhmm," the angel hums then, as if it wasn't enough already, and the slight vibration leaves Sam gasping for air.

"Nope." He pants, trying to sound like he's unaffected by her and failing miserably.

"Wanna play hard to get?" A little wiggle of her tongue follows the tease. She's enjoying herself, and Sam can hear a grin in Lucifer's voice once again. "I can work with that." The slick heat breaches his first ring of muscle, and he can feel her breathing heavily too, swirling her tongue in tight little circles inside of him.

Fingernails pinch hard enough to break the skin and draw blood when Sam's hips buck forward again. He could almost come from the sensations alone, but it's just barely not enough and he's left riding the knife's edge of his orgasm, shaking with tension. Lucifer flicks at his rim and Sam groans to hide a much more desperate whine. Just a touch is all it would take, feels like he's going to explode.

He's not sure of the rules to this game, but he knows he can't bring himself to beg for her, because it would be admitting defeat. Does the same hold true for refusing to play though? "S-stop," he gasps. The pain in his arms is getting to be too much, his headache coming back with a vengeance, and his balls feel like they're on fire.

But Lucifer doesn't let up, directing a little bite to the fleshier part of Sam's ass before attacking him again. Her tongue is fucking in and out of him, and it's too much. Too, too much. He's whimpering now, but he still won't say it, won't ask the angel to touch him. It's so much better to bear it instead, tears streaming down his face because it hurts about as amazingly as it feels.

Something's got to give though, and it feels like he is. Sam's knees are starting to buckle, his legs giving out from beneath him, and his shoulders and wrists are being strained to the point where it's starting to feel more and more like torture. Still, Lucifer doesn't let up, moaning as she gets him sloppy wet with her tongue, acting like Sam has only ever seen porn stars do it. He can't take it anymore. "Please," he whispers, halfway hoping that she doesn't hear.

"Please what, Sammy?" She lets go of him, her hands disappearing from his body, and Sam can't be sure, but he thinks she's sitting back on her feet. Either way, he's grateful for the second to breathe. He sucks in air like it's going out of fashion, trying to ignore the shaking in his body borne from far too much tension and such desperate need.

"Touch me," It's just a breath, but it sounds so loud in the silence, and Sam's begging for it as much as he's trying to pretend that he's not. He knows he's lost before he hears Jessica's laugh, and then her hands are on his shoulders and the pressure that suggests she's pulling herself up nearly makes him cry out in pain.

"Say yes to me," She suggests, pressing a kiss to each shoulder but doing nothing about the place where he's achingly hard between his legs.

"I can't"

The air is cold against his wet hole now, but Sam tries to hold himself still and not let the shivers overtake him. He's still got something left to prove, if not to Lucifer, then to himself. "You can. It's your safe word baby." The angel chuckles, hands twisting around him to flick at his nipple before she adds, "If you ever want me to stop…"

"No. Never." Sam repeats, realizing that they both must sound like broken records at this point. He wants nothing more than to say it, but he won't. He can't. Not even know when it hurts so fucking much and he's been right on the edge for god-only-knows how long…

"Good boy," Jessica chuckles, and smacks his ass hard enough that Sam's legs finally give up trying to keep him standing. There's a quick flash of pain that quickly dulls into a burning sensation, and his arms are nearly wrenched out of their sockets.

The last thing he hears is Lucifer laughing.

The angel's laughter is still ringing in his ears when Sam wakes up, something rather musty smelling tickling his face with every breath he takes. He's sprawled out on top of something uncomfortably hard and itchy at the same time and he's freezing cold, but his dick is arguing that it be put first. He's painfully hard, and it's pressed against his stomach demanding to be taken care of.

Sam's still exhausted, but it's pretty obvious that he's not going to be going back to sleep anytime soon. Not even bothering to open his eyes, he rocks his hips against whatever the hell he's lying on, letting out a soft moan at just how good the simple friction feels. A few times more and that's it for him, trying not to think about Lucifer or why Sam's so desperate as he creams his boxers.

Normally he's the type to laze around for a bit afterward, and Sam's really not in a hurry to go find a Laundromat just this minute, but he rolls over, blinking in the morning light. And sees trees.

It's disorienting as all hell, and again Sam has no clue where the heck he is, which he's really starting to get sick of. It comes rushing back when he sits up though, achy and sore all over from a night on the hard forest floor. The light's too bright and his head is pounding like Satan took a jackhammer to it, but what's really got his attention are the dead bodies right next to him.

Nothing like waking up next to a couple of stiffs, he thinks, and Dean is already making a few choice jokes in his head. It's really not funny. Sam can't deal with this yet, but he has to before anyone stumbles on them and misinterprets what happened. Only, there really isn't much to misinterpret – and Sam's going to be sick.

He clutches his head in his hands, forcing the feeling back down and trying to wait for it to pass. His hair is knotted and matted with blood under his fingers, not to mention all of the twigs, but he can't really bring himself to care at the moment.

_I killed her. I killed them both._ It sounds worse and worse the more he wakes up, and the more he stares blankly at the bloody corpses. There's blood everywhere. Sam's not even sure what percentage of it belongs to whom, how much of it is his, or the boy's, but he reckons that most is the girl's. Who he stabbed. And then tasted her blood. _And liked it_.

Sam's shaking, and it takes him a moment to figure out that it's with more than just his own revulsion and fear at what he's done. There's power coursing through his veins. He can feel the demon's blood in him, slipping along like a shadow in his bloodstream, and it's got him wired. The sheer wrongness of that alone…

When it all comes down to it though, there's not much else to do but pull out his lighter and burn the bodies. Sam refuses to use the power that's urging him to be used, and drags them one on top of the other by hand, moving gingerly at how his back twinges and the sticky mess in his boxers. He whips out his lighter to set them burning, again refusing to use the talent that wants to be bursting out of him. Finally, Sam whispers his apologies on top of their pyre, liking the way the flames lick at the blood-stained flesh a bit too much for his own comfort. Time to get out of there.

Sam lets the fire burn, mostly because he can't stand the thought of putting it out, not as beautiful and perfect as it is. Tongues of flame sear the meat, peeling it off of the kids' bones, consuming, destroying. They eat up the surrounding leaves, darting out and spreading faster than kudzu. He's scared – terrified of it, but Sam can't bear to harm it either. The carnage is surprisingly beautiful, and as soon as that thought crosses his mind his hands are shaking again.

It will bring down the whole forest if it's not checked in time. Sam watches it grow for a moment, and then his fear outweighs his wonder at it. He backs away, and then he runs, glancing over his shoulder to makes sure that it hasn't suddenly become a pursuing wall of flame.

His mouth tastes like a rotting corpse still, and Sam is nearly sick a few more times before he makes it back to his car. There's a half empty bottle of water shoved under the backseat though, and he drains it in two gulps. _You'll burn it clean_, the yellow-eyed demon's voice from long ago – back when Sam was in elementary school and terrified of any flame bigger than a candle – lingers in his head. _Fire will be your companion wherever you go, and you'll set the world ablaze._

Dean used to tease him, playing with the ritual candles and running his hand through the flame, taunting Sam about being a scaredy-cat when he refused to try it or pinch the fire out between his fingers like Dean did. Just another way that Dean was invincible – no matter what happened, Dean never got burned.

That's what Sam remembers as he takes off, leaving the town to burn to the ground with his guilt.

It's weak and it's cowardly, but Sam has to get out of there. He doesn't even stop to clean himself up, saving that for a truck stop bathroom a few miles away. He's hoping the distance will clear his head, and maybe help to ease that feeling of being hunted down, but it doesn't. All it does is drive home the idea that nowhere is safe anymore, and Dean's not even there to watch his back and tell him he's being a pussy, or just downright paranoid.

It's not until later that he realizes that he just fulfilled Azazel's prophesy, or that he may have committed a huge act of genocide, though if that won't keep him up at night, the triple shots of espresso sure will. Lucifer will be back for him. Sam's not stupid enough to even try to pretend otherwise. The second he closes his eyes Lucifer will be there, making a mockery of his resistance with Jessica's form.

His phone is in his hand, scrolled down to Dean's number less than a minute later. Of course, the number's been changed, but he could always call Bobby, see if Dean's been keeping in touch with him at least… Yeah, it's useless. "God dammit Dean," Sam grits out through clenched teeth, staring down the screen on his phone as if Dean's number might miraculously change yet. "Where the hell are you?" _I need you, _Is a close thing, but Sam manages not to say that part aloud.

He can't even think of Jessica these days to make things better, for obvious reasons.

No, there's no one to talk to. No one to tell him that he can resist. And that's when Sam realizes that he won't. There's no way for him to win, because it was never about him saying no to the devil. It was only ever how long he could hold off on saying yes.

He drives for hours after that – much too fast and halfway hoping he'll wind up hitting a wet patch, hydroplane and skid off the road and into a barrier. But the road is dry, and even the worn down treads on his stolen car are effective enough to keep him alive. At least sleeping won't be a problem for a while. _I'll just bring you back…_


End file.
